***
Oh, what a night! I cannot sleep.
The sky is moonlit. Well, I never!
It seems that I in my heart I keep
The youth that has been gone for ever.
My friend of frosted bygone years,
Don't call a game love and affection,
I'd rather have the moonlight rays
Flow down upon my habitation.
And looking down from above
Let it depict my features here, -
You cannot fall out of love
Just like you couldn't love me, dear.
We only love just once, you know,
So you are alien to me, strangely,
Just like a lime tree, foot in snow,
Is trying to attract us, vainly.
I know it well, you know it, too,-
What we can see at this late hour
Is frost and snow appearing blue
And not the splendour of a flower.
We'we had our love, our time and day
Each having someone to admire,
And now we're fated anyway
To play affection, love, desire.
Come now, caress me, hold me tight,
Kiss me with hot, pretended fervour,
And may I dream about the light
Of spring and love that lasts forever.
November 30th, 1925
Sergey Yesenin
My Life
It appears, my life is fated to torment;
My way is dammed up by grief and distress.
My life has been severed from fun and enjoyment,
Vexation and wounds are afflicting my chest.
It seems I’m fated to suffer from pain.
All I have in this life are bad luck and misfortune.
I have suffered enough in this life, and again
Both my body and soul have been put to the torture.
The expanse, vast and hazy, promises joy,
Sighs and tears, however, are the real solutions.
A storm will break out, the thunder - oh boy! -
Will ruin the magical luscious illusions.
Now I know life’s deception, and nevertheless
I don’t want to complain of bad luck and misfortune.
So my soul doesn’t suffer from grief and distress,
No one ever can help to relieve me from torture.
1911-1912
***
I’m back at home. My dear land
Is pensive, spreading all around !
The twilight waves its snow-white hand
To greet me from beyond the mound.
The grizzle of the gloomy day
Is floating by over my home, and
The evening fills me with dismay
Like insurmountable torment.
Above the church, over the dome,
The sunset shade has fallen down.
My dear friends, I’m back at home,
And won’t be seeing you around.
The years have flown like a whirl,
And where are you, my friends, I wonder?
All I can hear is the purl
Of water by the mill-house yonder.
And often, sitting by the hearth,
to sound of sedge crack, or whatever,
I pray to steaming mother earth
Fore those who’re are gone lost for ever.
1916
* * *
I will not deceive myself, admitting
I have worries in my heart, so dreary.
Why am I reputed as a cheating
Crook and trouble-maker, really?
I am not a villain nor a thief in hiding,
And I never shot imprisoned convicts.
I am just a thoughtless idler, smiling
Friendly and avoiding conflicts.
I am a naughty reckless Moscow loner.
All along the main street, and around,
Every little dog in every corner
Knows me by the way I tread the ground.
Every jade I meet, rundown and hopeless,
Gives me nods of hail and salutation.
I am a friend of animals, my verses
Are as good for them as medication.
I don’t wear my hat to charm the ladies
For I can’t stand featherbrained emotions.
It’s convenient to use my hats as ladles
Filling them with oats to feed the horses.
I do not have friends among the people,
It’s a different kingdom I am bound to.
I will gladly give my tie to simple
Shaggy dog I happen to encounter.
From now on I will be safe and sound.
In my heart a sunny day is breaking.
That’s the reason why they tend to count
Me to be a crook and trouble-maker.
1922
* * *
Yes! It’s settled! Now and for ever
I have left my dear old plain.
And the winged leaves of poplars will never
Ring and rustle above me again.
Our house will sag in my absence,
And my dog died a long time ago.
Me, I’ll die without compassions
In the crooked streets of Moscow, I know.
I admire this city of elm-trees
With decrepit buildings and homes.
Golden somnolent Asian entities
Are reposing on temple domes.
When the moonlight at night, dissipated,
Shines… like hell in the dark sky of blue!
I walk down the alley, dejected,
To the pub for a drink, maybe, two.
It’s a sinister den, harsh and roaring,
But in spite of it, all through the night
I read poems for girls that go whoring
And carouse with thieves with delight.
Though I talk, all I say is quite pointless,
With my heart pulsating so fast:
Just like you, I am totally worthless,
And I cannot re-enter the past.
Our house will sag in my absence,
And my dog died a long time ago.
I am fated to die with compassions
In the crooked streets of Moscow, I know.
1922
* * *
It’s sad to look at you, my love,
And it’s so painful to remember!
It seems, the only thing we have
Is tint of willow in September.
Somebody’s lips have outworn
Your warmth and body trepidation,
As if the rain was drizzling down
The soul, that stiffened in congestion.
Well, let it be! I do not dread.
I have some other joyous gala.
There’s nothing left for me except
For brown dust and grizzly colour.
I’ve been unable, to my rue,
To save myself, for smiles or any.
The roads that I have walked are few
Mistakes that I have made are many.
Thus funny life and funny split.
So it has been and will be ever
The grove with birch-tree bones in it
Is like a graveyard , well I never!
Likewise, we’ll go to our doom
And fade, like callers of the garden.
In winter flowers never bloom,
An so we shouldn’t grieve about them.
1923
***
Don’t torment me with coldness and stiffness
And don’t ask me my age and so on.
I have serious falling sickness
With my soul like a yellow bone.
Years ago I wasn’t the same as
I am now. I was dreamy and all,
I imagined that I would be famous
Very wealthy and favoured by all.
I’m excessively rich. I declare!
There’s my hat which I never use.
All I have is a shirt and a pair
Of worn out once elegant shoes.
I am famous as well. They know me
From Moscow to Paris scum.
And my name will arouse a stormy
Response, like a curse and damn.
As for love, don’t you think it’s amusing?
As I kiss you, your lips are like dead.
I’ve got love which I seem to be losing
Whereas yours hasn’t bloomed as yet.
I’m gloomy at times – I don’t care,
For it isn’t yet time to be sad.
The young grass on the hills, like your hair,
Rustling, looks like a golden pad.
I would like to be there in that vastness
So I might, to the rustle of grass,
Fall asleep and drown in darkness
And daydream like I did in the past.
But the things I now dream about
Are quite new to the earth and the grass
For they can’t be expressed and spelled out,
And they cannot be named, alas!
1923
A Letter to Mother
Are you still alive, my dear granny?
I am alive as well. Hello! Hello!
May there always be above you, honey,
The amazing stream of evening glow.
I’ve been told that hiding your disquiet,
Worrying about me a lot,
You go out to the roadside every night,
Wearing your shabby overcoat.
In the evening darkness, very often,
You conceive the same old scene of blood:
Kind of in a tavern fight some ruffian
Plunged a Finnish knife into my heart.
Now calm down, mom! And don’t be dreary!
It’s a painful fiction through and through.
I’m not so bad a drunkard, really,
As to die without seeing you.
I‘m your tender son as ever, dear,
And the only thing I dream of now
Is to leave this dismal boredom here
And return to our little house. And how!
I’ll return in spring without warning
When the garden blossoms, white as snow.
Please don’t wake me early in the morning,
As you did before, eight years ago.
Don’t disturb my dreams that now have flown,
Don’t perturb my vain and futile strife
For it’s much too early that I’ve known
Heavy loss and weariness in life.
Please don’t teach me how to say my prayers!
There is no way back to what is gone.
You’re my only joy, support and praise
And my only flare shining on.
Please forget about your pain and fear,
Please don’t worry over me a lot
Don’t go out to the roadside, dear,
Wearing your shabby overcoat.
1924
* * *
The golden birch-tree grove has fallen silent
Its merry chatter having stopped afore,
The cranes up there flying over, sullen,
Have nobody to pity any more.
Whom should they pity? Each is just a trotter.
One comes and goes and leaves for good again.
The moon and hempen bush above the water
Remember all those perished, filled with pain.
I’m standing on the plain all on my own,
The cranes, the wind is taking them away,
I think about my boyhood which has flown,
And I do not regret my bygones anyway.
I don’t regret the days that I discarded,
I don’t feel sorry for the lilac of my soul.
The purple rowan burning in the garden
Can’t warm and comfort anyone at all.
The rowan will maintain its coloration.
The grass exposed to heat will not decease,
I drop my words of sorrow and vexation
The way a tree drops quietly its leaves.
And if some day the wind of time intended
To rake them all up in a useless roll…
You ought to say: the golden grove has ended
Its lovely chatter in the prime of fall.
1924
I haven’t forgotten you, dearie,
The shine of your hair and all.
It wasn’t so easy and cheery
To leave you, as I recall.
I haven’t forgotten the autumn,
The rustle of birches, the night;
And though the days were shorter
The moonlight was long and bright.
You whispered these words in my ear:
“The years and the dreams will be gone,
You’ll go with another, my dear,
And leave me all on my own”.
That lime standing there, in flower,
Reminds my emotion anew
The way I would tenderly shower
Those beautiful flowers on you.
My heart will be warm, sad and sorry,
In love, remembering well
You, friend, as a fanciful story
Of love with another girl.
1925
***
Don't Fall, my little star, keep shining,
Keep dropping chilly beams of light.
There is no living heart abiding
Up there beyond the grave-yard site.
And from you beam you bring us summer
And fill the fields with rye and hay
And with a thrilling wistful clamour
Of cranes that haven’t flown away.
I raise my head and I can hear
Beyond the wood across the hill
A lovely song about the near
And dear homeland, such a thrill!
The autumn, turning gold, appears
To squeeze the juice from trees and plants;
It’s shedding pensive leaves of tears
For the beloved and loving ones.
I know, I know, the time is near,
Through no one’s fault, with no offence,
I, too, will rest in peace right here
Beneath the mournful little fence.
The tender flame will soon die out,
My heart will turn to dust, for worse,
My fiends will put a stone, no doubt.
With words of merriment, in verse.
But, feeling grief and seeing proper,
I ‘d put it in the following way:
He loved his homeland like a toper
Adores a bar and a buffet.
August 1925
